#*jazzhands*

“Are you going to be sick?” Geralt asks bluntly, crossing his arms.

Whatever Jaskier had been planning to say, that wasn’t it. Somehow Geralt feels like he just cut off the beginning of a long-winded monologue. “I — what? No. Why would you even think  —  honestly, Geralt. Really.”

Jaskier clears his throat, huffing off to the side as though Roach has personally offended him. If glaring at the horse is easier than meeting Geralt’s eyes, something really is wrong.

For a long moment, Geralt simply stares at him, inviting him to say whatever he was intending to… but, stubborn as he is, Jaskier remains quiet. Geralt knows from experience how long the bard’s silent treatment lasts — five minutes, tops. With a grunt, he concedes to Jaskier’s sulk, turning and continuing on their way down the path. Until Jaskier decides to pull his head out of his own ass or vomit off the side of the road, it’s not his problem.

That’s what he commits himself to, at least. Remembering it becomes harder as time drags on — minutes into hours, continuing through the humid woods with nothing but Roach’s hoofbeats to fill the silence. On any average day, this would be fine. Geralt would prefer it, really, to an hour filled with Jaskier’s inane chatter. But silence isn’t something Jaskier understands, and he definitely doesn’t practice it. Being alone with his own thoughts is one thing; having Jaskier hang over his shoulder, following for hours without saying a single word, is another. 

It’s unnatural. Unnerving. Like attending the wedding of a bride wraith —  everything appears fine, but one crucial element is very, very wrong, and it poisons the entire afternoon.

Sure, Jaskier keeping his mouth shut can’t compare to the bride trying to eat her groom, but… Geralt’s not the best at analogies.

A part of him wants to round on Jaskier and demand to know what’s wrong — but that might cause more problems than it’s worth. However awkward silence is, an argument would be worse. Eager to avoid it, Geralt does his best to glance back at Jaskier as infrequently as possible — just enough to ensure he’s still there — determinedly trudging ahead. Eager for a distraction, he keeps busy scanning the woods around them. Level terrain will suit, the more secluded the better. There’s no chance they’ll make it to the wights’ lair before nightfall, but they can at least find a safe spot to bed down for the night.

Finally, Geralt comes to a halt in a small clear area, carpeted with pine needles and fir. Under the cover of trees, they will not be visible from higher up on the mountain; and with rocks at their backs, there’s no chance of being snuck up on. It’s clearly the best choice — but traveling with Jaskier long enough has taught him that at least consulting his companion is the best thing to do, unless he wants to listen to Jaskier complain all evening.

“How’s here for tonight?” he asks, finally turning back to face Jaskier. Immediately, Geralt wishes he hadn’t.

Somehow, Jaskier pallor has only grown. He looks even worse now, a hellish grey, washed out and drained of all energy; beyond the slumped shoulders and lowered head, his jaw is tense, lips bleeding in places where they’ve been chewed nearly raw. Jaskier’s eyes scan the clearing, duller than they’ve got any right to be, before he looks back up at Geralt and offers a short nod.  “Uhh. Yeah, this works.”

Geralt stares at him. “You’ve got nothing to add?” Jaskier always has a complaint about wherever they end up camping. If the silence was unnerving, this is simply wrong.

Jaskier considers for a moment, scuffing his toe against the stone floor, before shaking his head. “Nope. It’s fine.”

Geralt doesn’t buy that for a moment. He continues staring for a beat too long, drawing his skepticism out until it’s practically strangling them both… until at last giving up, looking away with a grunt of acquiescence. No arguments here. If Jaskier doesn’t feel like whining (but that’s wrong, Jaskier always whines) he won’t look the gift horse in its mouth… no matter how uneasy it leaves him.

Setting up camp is quick work, made longer by Jaskier’s overall reluctance to help. He’s useless at starting a fire on a good day — but tonight, charged with arranging stones for a fire pit, he can hardly bring himself to focus on the task at hand. He meanders around, picking up rocks and discarding them after a few thoughtful seconds; if he moved any slower, Geralt might mistake him for a zombie. Occasionally he braces himself against a tree and simply stands there, eyes shut and face drawn. He draws shallow breaths into his lungs and seems to hold them, as if frightened to let them out; Geralt watches, half-fascinated, until he manages to recover.

It was the tuna, he’s decided by the time their packs are set up and a miserable fire pit has been assembled. Something about it smelled off last night, and Geralt had wanted to say as much… but Jaskier was already halfway done with dinner. To bring it up would have been to worry him needlessly for nothing. 

Of course, now it clearly isn’t nothing. While Geralt’s stronger stomach could handle the tainted food just fine, Jaskier hasn’t been so lucky.

Geralt snorts as the bard slumps down on a log, hunching in on himself with both arms around his stomach. For all his reluctance to voice his discomfort, Jaskier makes no attempt to hide it. He glowers after the ground, throat bobbing with each heavy swallow. A few times, his eyebrows draw together, and he exhales hard through his nose; where he might have been keeping quiet before to salvage his dignity, now Geralt seriously doubts Jaskier is able to open his mouth.

“If —“ Geralt begins, before stopping cold. Ask Jaskier about it again, and he’s just going to deny it. While acting as if Geralt’s insulted him. What’s the point inviting that? Instead, Geralt closes his mouth and leans back, regarding his companion unwaveringly. Jaskier’s shoulders are tense, his limbs drawn like taut bowstrings. He doesn’t even look up at the dropped question. Over the heavy silence, a low gurgle emanates from Jaskier’s stomach; he inhales sharply, pressing both arms in on himself, and doesn’t move a muscle.

By now, it’s impossible to look away. Geralt crosses his arms and leans forward, frowning. Jaskier has to break sometime. It’s inevitable. But the moments drag by, long and agonized, and he remains still as a statue. Either Jaskier is that stubborn or that optimistic, but Geralt can see things clearly: if Jaskier doesn’t get it up now, they’re both going to spend the rest of the night miserable.

Casually, he reaches towards his back and draws out a parcel wrapped in cloth. He hadn’t wanted to save last night’s leftovers, but Jaskier insisted. “Squirrel?” he asks, extending a piece of dried flesh Jaskier’s way. 

Jaskier reels, scrambles backwards over the log, and gags into the bushes.

Geralt tucks the squirrel away, victorious.

He tries to give Jaskier his privacy from there — some things he just doesn’t need to see. It’s more difficult when Jaskier finds his voice again. Apparently, nausea was the only thing holding it back, and the moment he’s unleashed the first torrent of partically-digested squirrel into the bushes, he remembers how to speak again.

“Geralt — oh gods — I feel awful, Geralt.”

Something Geralt surmised on his own.

“My stomach — hah-hah-uhhhh.” Jaskier belches, loud and queasy. Geralt can’t help making a face. “It’s turning inside out. Destroying itself. Help, Geralt.”

“Leave me out of this.”

“For the love of —“ Jaskier cuts himself off with a gurgle; his shoulders convulse, and he whips around just in time to avoid vomiting directly at Geralt. It’s all the unfortunate eavesdropper can do to remain where he is. Comforting Jaskier would be the nice thing to do… but he’s never been called nice in his life. Still, it seems a bit too rude to move to the other side of the fire, just to put some distance between the two of them.

“Do you, uhh —“ Geralt frowns into the flames once the latest round of gagging has died off. “Do you need anything?”

“A merciful death,” replies Jaskier, strangled.

“Right.” After a long moment, Geralt rises from his own log and treds carefully across the campsite. He’s not at all quiet, but Jaskier doesn’t look up until Geralt is standing right next to him, looming at his shoulder. Jaskier’s mouth opens, but instead of a question he only manages a sick hiccup.

“There. There, there.” Geralt’s hand lands on Jaskier’s back, which promptly shudders with another gag. Unsure of what else to do — of all the uncomfortable places life has taken him, this is somehow still a first — Geralt pats Jaskier’s back, lightly at first, then with more confidence as the sick man brings up another wave of sick.

The last thing he expects when Jaskier is done is for the bard’s full weight to slump against him. Jaskier moans aloud, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. His other arm still cradles his roiling stomach, but at least he no longer looks a pin’s drop away from projectile vomiting. “That was hell,” he mutters, jolting with a silent hiccup. “Been feeling queasy all day, but I hoped… oh, gods. It was the squirrel, wasn’t it? It was the squirrel.”

Geralt, in a merciful mood, does not confirm the suspicion.

Jaskier moans, leaning back against Geralt’s legs. There’s sick on his shirt, and his bangs are glued to his sweat-soaked brow. For a moment, Geralt simply allows himself relief that it’s over. Then, another gurgle emanates from Jaskier’s raging stomach, and he realizes that no, it’s really not.